


we put the world away

by ohcinnamon



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, don't judge me i'm really tired and i needed some sweetness, just boyfriends being in love, patrick has a shitty day at work but pete is an expert blanket fort maker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohcinnamon/pseuds/ohcinnamon
Summary: Pete grins and pulls him into the fort, locking his arms and legs around him like some kind of demented sloth. Patrick sucks in a sharp breath in surprise before they roll, nearly taking half the fort down with them. Pete just laughs, pulling him in without hesitation and kissing him like it’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other instead of hours.





	we put the world away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xs_Os](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xs_Os/gifts).



> look, i know it's nowhere near thanksgiving, but i got this idea stuck in my head, and it was so cute that i had to write it, okay? deal with it
> 
> title from "disconnected" by 5sos (it's a good song okay cut me some slack)

Patrick hates his job.

Well, he loves it - music-elitist wannabe white boy working in a record shop? _Fuck_ yeah - but _today_ he hates it. Mostly because a.) it’s nearly Thanksgiving, which means Black Friday is coming, and he’s had to rearrange displays for the upcoming sales all week, b.) some customers really don’t seem to get the idea that no, he’s not the manager, he’s just an employee, and he absolutely cannot make an exception for them to get the sale price early (honestly, _what the fuck_ ), and c.) if his manager keeps scheduling him at ridiculous hours, he won’t have time for band practice, like, ever.

There’s also the fact that Joe won’t pick up his fucking phone tonight for some reason, so he has to walk back to the apartment - which isn’t really that far away, to be fair, but he doesn’t like walking alone at 10:30 in the evening, especially when he’s pretty sure he just watched a passive-aggressive drug deal go down around the corner.

Fuck Joe and his stupid van. He’s even less reliable than public transport.

He takes a deep breath as he nears the apartment, fishing his key out of his pocket. It glints red in the dim light - they’d all gotten their keys done in different colors so they wouldn’t forget - and tries to remember that most of the time, he loves his bandmates. They’re the kind of guys who don’t wake him when he sleeps until noon and do his laundry when he works late and color-coordinate their keys on the hooks. They’re fun, and they care about him, and they balance him out. They force him out of being grumpy - well, most of the time. Life could be worse. He turns the key in the lock, feeling slightly better knowing that he’s home.

And, when he opens the door to find a humongous blanket fort covering most of their living room, he is not disappointed.

Pete’s nearly asleep in the middle of the fort, wearing a ratty pair of Star Wars pajama pants and some fan-made t-shirt. (Patrick’s jealous. He’d way rather be in pajamas than a work uniform right now.) The TV is on at nearly full volume, but Pete’s only half-watching some late-night comedy show when Patrick walks into the room. Upon hearing his approaching footsteps, he sits straight up, eyes sparkling with excitement, which pulls at Patrick’s heartstrings a little bit. Today sucked, sure, but his boyfriend is adorable.

“Hey, Trick! How was work?”

“Fuckin terrible,” Patrick deadpans, sighing heavily. He raises an eyebrow, looking around the apartment in sudden confusion. So far, there’s been so sign of life except for Pete, the TV blaring in the background, and obnoxious blue and yellow Batman sheets. This is odd, considering that when he’d left for work, the three of them had been in the middle of a video-game marathon with no intention of stopping. “Where are the boys?”

Pete shrugs, putting the TV on mute. “They went out to get groceries for tomorrow night, but Andy wouldn’t let me come. Said I’d be ‘too distracting’ for Joe, and they wouldn’t get anything done.”

Patrick groans, banging his head against the wall. His temple throbs from the impact, but that’s the least of his worries right now. This day just gets worse and worse. “Everything he gets is going to be vegan, and Joe is going to let him get it because he has no backbone, and Thanksgiving will be ruined.”

“Not so fast, Lunchbox,” Pete says, crawling out of the fort enough to smile up at him. “If Hurley does somehow make _everything_ inedible, I’ll sneak out with you and get Chinese food.”

“Tempting offer,” Patrick says, a slight smile curling up the ends of his lips. “I kind of hate the idea of Thanksgiving though. Y’know, since we wiped out most of the Native Americans and treated them horribly and nobody ever talks about that. That's kinda shitty on our part.”

“Our ancestors did that,” Pete corrects him, holding up a finger to make his argument. “Though you do have a point. We were shitty people. However, it can't be any worse than Columbus Day.”

“Fuck Columbus Day,” Patrick agrees, nodding solemnly. “Hey, if it’s okay with you, I think I’m just gonna shower and hit the sack. It’s been a shitty day.”

Pete frowns, sitting up on his knees and pouting like a little kid, lip quivering and all. It’s the “Pete Wentz guilt package” - one that Patrick receives a lot. Sometimes, Patrick swears he’s actually five instead of _twenty-five._ “Come on, Trick. I wanna cuddle, and you’ve had a long day at work, so why don’t you be a grown up and get in the fort?”

“I can’t believe you're quoting _Friends_ at me,” Patrick grumbles, but drops to his hands and knees anyway. Sometimes you can get away with denying Pete what he wants; other times, it’s just not worth it, even if you could be having a bubble bath right now. _Damn it._

“It's a good show!” Pete grins and pulls him into the fort, locking his arms and legs around him like some kind of demented sloth. Patrick sucks in a sharp breath in surprise before they roll, nearly taking half the fort down with them. Pete just laughs, pulling him in without hesitation and kissing him like it’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other instead of hours. Patrick relaxes against him, lets himself melt into it.

“When we get famous, you won’t have to worry about having a shitty day at work,” Pete murmurs against his lips, smiling as he does so. “You’ll be doing something you love all the time.”

“ _If_ we get famous,” Patrick corrects him, but he can’t stop the smile spreading across his own face. It’s unrealistic, yeah, and they’ll probably crash and burn, but he can’t help but wonder what life would be like if they actually made it. It would be a lot better than a shitty apartment in the bad part of town, that’s for sure.

“We will, Lunchbox, stop worrying,” Pete coos, resting his forehead against Patrick’s. “You forget that you’re talking to the world’s greatest casanova here. I’ve got this whole thing in the bag.”

“‘ _World’s greatest casanova_ ,’” Patrick mimics, snickering quietly. Pete hits his shoulder in protest, but it’s no use. No amount of offended whining in the world could convince him that Pete is a casanova, in any way, shape, or form - he’s a good-looking dude in an okay-ish band with headstrong tendencies and a fuckton of persistence. _That’s_ what gets them gigs, not the fact that Pete thinks he’s the smoothest motherfucker in Chicago. “Yeah, babe, you keep telling yourself that. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Pete furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Well, if it’s not true, then how the fuck did I get you to fall in love with me?”

Patrick knows exactly how it happened - somewhere along the lines of feverish nights in the van, sitting on the hood at 2 AM, talking about anything and everything until Pete just fucking _gave up_ and practically jumped him. They got lost in the warm slide of lips and skin on skin contact, friendship teetering on the precipice of something greater, and plunged over the edge together. It was just... _automatic_ , almost, for everything to fall into place the way it did.

“I like you,” he says simply, shrugging to prove just how easy it is. “You’re _you._ ”

“You like me...for my personality?” Pete asks, looking both awed and slightly horrified at the same time.

Patrick nods, smirking slightly. “I know; I was surprised too.”

“Asshole. You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

And then Pete splinters the moment by smacking his shoulder again, and they’re both shaking in mutual fits of laughter. He snorts a couple of times, which makes Patrick’s eyes water, which makes Pete shove his fingers into his ribs to tickle him - and by the time they’ve settled that, the fort is coming down around them, blankets sagging over the entrance from being rolled into. When all is said and done, Patrick can’t even remember the stupid customers he had to deal with earlier, which says a lot - specifically about the hold Pete has on him.

Pete might be the more vocal one about it, but Patrick’s definitely in love with him, too. No doubt about it.

Speaking of his dork boyfriend, he’s shifted so that he’s practically laying on top of Patrick, his head resting on Patrick’s chest. It feels like this is his anchor to the world; Pete’s a warm, solid weight on top of him, keeping him grounded, and it makes all the tension drain out of his shoulders.

“Hey,” Pete murmurs, looking down at him with Patrick’s favorite smile on his face. It's the one where he's so happy his eyes go all squinty and crinkly, the one that made Patrick fall in love with him in the first place. There’s a faint blush staining his cheeks, something you can only notice if you’ve really been looking for it. And, well, Patrick’s never been good at picking up the details, but Pete’s different. Patrick’s never _stopped_ looking.

Patrick reaches up, brushing his hair out of the way so that he can see the smile he loves even better. “Hey yourself, assmunch.”

“Sorry your day sucked.”

Patrick smiles softly, brushing his hand gently down the curve of Pete’s jaw. He leans into it, warm cheek burning against Patrick’s palm, and the sweet ache in his chest intensifies tenfold. “It just got a whole lot better.”

“Happy Thanksgiving Eve,” Pete whispers back, brushing their noses together. Patrick can't help but grin, his eyelids falling closed. It’s about time he counted his lucky stars, and Pete’s a whole goddamn constellation. So maybe he kinda hates this holiday, but something tells him this one might not be so bad after all. “I already know what I'm gonna be thankful for this year.”

 


End file.
